You hated George. With every fiber of your being. The sight of him—his lopsided grin, his shaggy ginger hair, the way he always seemed so maddeningly at ease—set your teeth on edge. It had always been like this, ever since you were children, bickering over broomsticks and Quidditch scores. And yet, here you were, four months into a marriage you never asked for, bound together by the threads of an arrangement neither of you had the power to untangle.

The current setting: a cozy inn near Hogsmeade, with a storm raging outside. Thick stone walls shuddered with the force of the wind, and the crackling fire in the corner seemed pitifully small against the chill. The innkeeper, a cheery older witch, had only one room left when you arrived—a room with one bed.

“You’re joking,” you said flatly, glaring at the single, far-too-small bed as if it had personally wronged you.

“Don’t worry, love,” George replied, throwing himself onto it with a dramatic sigh, arms stretched wide as if to claim the entire mattress. “I’ll even let you have the side closest to the window. Aren’t I generous?”

“You’re insufferable,” you snapped, crossing your arms. The firelight danced across his face, casting soft shadows over the scars that cut across his cheek and temple. He caught you staring and arched a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in a smirk.

“You’re staring,” he teased, propping himself up on one elbow. “Can’t say I blame you. I do look rather dashing in this lighting, don’t I?”

“Please,” you scoffed, turning away to hide the heat rising to your cheeks. “You look like a wet puffskein.”

“Careful,” he said, his tone dropping just enough to make your heart stumble. “Keep talking like that, and I might think you’re flirting.”

You whirled to face him, your scathing retort ready, only to find him grinning up at you, eyes twinkling with mischief. He looked ridiculous, sprawled out on the bed in his mismatched socks, his hair sticking out in every direction.